


bite your tongue till it tastes like blood.

by SirenSong



Series: you were good and bright and holy [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Character Death, Emotionally Repressed, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealousy, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 23:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14555808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirenSong/pseuds/SirenSong
Summary: Meditation and practice brought him no peace, leaving him listless and bereft of sensations. Scented smoke that came from his candles and incense cast a disgusting film that lingered for far too long in his vents. The cool silence of his habsuite and his practice room only reminded him the absence of warmth, spun gold-holy red, andDrift!( Or how Drift does not cope with Rodimus’ departure. )





	bite your tongue till it tastes like blood.

**Author's Note:**

> **Pairings** : Drift/Rodimus, unrequited. Mentions of established Rodimus/Megatron.
> 
>  **Warnings** : Character death. Repressed feelings. Unhealthy coping mechanisms. Mentions of possible self-harm in some passages.
> 
>  **General Notes** : Will be a four part series that revolves around the aftermath when Rodimus dies during a mission.
> 
>  **Current Notes** : Drift’s piece is based on a prompt I wrote on my Tumblr account during a writing meme. It has been edited to further polish it and expand on some scenes and thoughts I didn’t have time to add. Also: What is canon continuity and timelines? Not my concern, that’s for sure.

_“Something on your mind, beautiful?”_

_Rodimus looks up in puzzlement, the question throwing off the haze of not-quite-sleep that had been blurring his EM field. His features are soft and tired, the curve of his frown and the glassy quality of his optics caught in the fading light of stars and sparkglow._

_“Am I that obvious?” Rodimus wrinkles his nose while he asks. His pensive frown deepening into a scowl when he sees how Drift is trying to hold back his laughter. “I’m serious, Drift!” He pushes at his Amica’s chassis though Drift can tell there’s no real bite to his words, no harshness in his movements. Drift curls up around him, pulling his fellow speedster closer to provide warmth and comfort and all the other things that would have Rodimus rush to his habsuite these days._

_“I know you are. It’s how I know you’re being bothered by something.” Drift pulls back a bit and he smiles at his Amica. Though the expression is too heavy to be considered truly happy. “That, and we bonded earlier. Something felt… off.”_

_Rodimus doesn’t reply and instead scoots closer to Drift, curling up close to his side so Drift could envelop him in his warm arms and his warmer field._

_“Is it about Megatron? ‘Again,’ goes unsaid. It doesn’t need to be said when Drift’s field heats up, becomes jagged around the edges in protectiveness and indignation and something can’t really be defined in that moment. All that can be said is that it’s a shade similar to that of bitterness. “Did he upset you somehow? Is that why your spark was so distressed when we bonded?”_

_A sigh, a slip of air and defeat passes through Rodimus’ kiss swollen lips as he looks up beseechingly in into Drift’s dim optics. “We’re having a rough patch is all. Nothing too bad.”_

_Lies but Drift doesn’t call him out on that. He focuses on the real problem, the reason he begins to shift in place and eyes the direction of his door that’ll lead to the corridors of the Lost Light. “I can talk to him—”_

_“Don’t.” Rodimus doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to shout. He simply clings to Drift, tries to keep him still despite Drift’s efforts to sit up and move him away. He speaks, voice rushed and a little frantic and scared which is enough to have Drift stop still and listen. “Don’t. Don’t. Please don’t? That means you’ll have to go and I don’t— I can’t— The whole point is not to be alone and—” It soon devolves into crackles and hisses of static and shame and sorrow and how Drift’s spark aches to hear it. “… Don’t leave me.”_

_In the end he gives in, as he always does. He lies back down and holds Rodimus closer to his chassis, petting the dropping spoiler and claiming the unsettled field. He tries to will the world away and focus only on this single moment._

_The moment, brief and glorious, where he can pretend he and Rodimus are more than Amica. More than friends._

_“I won’t leave you. I’ll always be there for you, Roddy,” Drift promises, taking a second to breathe in the scent of stardust and heat, hearth and sweet oils. “I promise.”_

———————————————————————————

Everything disgusted Drift now.

It’s strange. He could no longer find the beauty in the universe he had longed to travel without a gun in his hand. He could no longer find the inner calm and peace he worked so hard to gather over his long. After all he had tried (and tried and tried and tried for so fucking long) to find something to give reason and meaning to his existence, it was almost amusing with how quick the things he used to love or cherish turned to dust and disinterest before his very optics.

Meditation and practice brought him no peace, leaving him listless and bereft of sensations. Scented smoke that came from his candles and incense cast a disgusting film that lingered for far too long in his vents. The cool silence of his habsuite and his practice room only reminded him the absence of warmth, spun gold-holy red, and  _Drift!_

Then there’s the crew. Despite having a bond with Ratchet, friendly with Perceptor, and perhaps still holding hopes that he can be friends with Ultra Magnus and Brainstorm and the others, Drift struggles to find a connection with the others in the wake of what’s happened. He could never consider them companions before his exile. Now? He can’t consider them as that because it implies he feels a connection with them, a tie that brings them together in someway. Which he no longer has since Ratchet came out of the surgery room, his optics dark and dim.

Most of all, he finds the presence of everyone on the ship too much for him. For one reason or another, their very existence when they’re him causes his protoform to crawl and itch beneath his plating, his hackles to raise and his fangs to be bared. Rung is too invasive or Thunderclash is too nice or Brainstorm is too understanding. One way or another they irritate him and he knows it’s not their fault and he knows it isn’t fair to have these urges to push them away, snarl at their faces to make them keep away.

All the same it takes what little control he has to keep his patience when around them, if he’s forced to leave his rooms to fuel or to assure certain faces that he hasn’t joined Rodimus in the Well yet.

The only one he can feel like himself again is Ratchet and some nights that’s enough for him. Some nights it isn’t.

Tonight is the latter.

He regrets allowing himself to be dragged to Swerve’s by Ratchet. He finds himself surrounded by those he wants nothing to do with, feeling only irritation and hostility to them these days. Only now they know now how good and bright and holy he truly was. Only know do they begin to extol the virtues he saw from the very beginning.

They’re hemming and humming, making a point to give a show of how they’re so sad for Rodimus’ departure, so sorry for poor Megatron’s loss and toll their captain must feel to do the funeral services all by himself. It sets Drift on edge. The falseness of their words. The simpering quality of their tones. The sudden concern and respect they’re only showing after there’s no reason to show it.

Drift snaps out of his circular and vicious thoughts when he feels a servo, warm and heavy, rest on top of his. It makes him realise he’s clenching his servo into a fist, painfully so.

“Don’t.” Ratchet, never one to mince words, gets to the heart of the matter. “You know better than that. You’re better than that.”

… “They never showed any of this to him while he was still alive.” It’s all Drift can trust himself to say after a few seconds of silence. “Now they’re talking about how he tried his best? Where was that whenever someone was mocking him during his gatherings at the bay?”

“Consider it their part of the Mourning Cycle,” is Ratchet’s reply. “The Guilt Stage, Assuagement Level. Trying to talk big for Rodimus in order to ease their guilt for not doing it when he was still around.” Ratchet’s optics flicker away from Drift’s gaze for a brief second. He has opinions on that, no doubt. Opinions he keeps to himself, knowing better than to shake that nest of electrumwasps in this moment. “We never realise what we have until its long gone, kid.” He offers a shrug at the end. The gesture banal and meaningful, helpless and yet somehow full of purpose.

Drift, all of the sudden feeling vexed and frustrated, wants to point out to Ratchet that he and him are, more or less, the same age. He certainly feels old as Ratchet in this moment — His processor feels too slow and his body is too heavy.

He wants to say something all the same.

Drift has so many things he wants to tell them. He knows so many things.

Like how Rodimus had this way of hiding his flinches if he passed a group that whispered just loud enough to be ‘overheard’. Or how Rodimus made it a point to remember the names of all those who died on his ship, in the order of who died first and who was the latest casualty.

Or how Rodimus had confided in _him_ about all sorts of things when they curled up in the darkness of Drift’s habsuite. Legs tangled, frames pressed. Only the fading light of stars and sparkglow casting a glow against of Rodimus’ soft and tired features while he spoke of Nyon and nightmares, doubts and Dealer. There are so many truths and revelations that rest on the tip of his glossa, ready to be let loose on the world that never deserved Rodimus.

Out of the corner of his optics, he sees Ratchet staring at him with an unreadable expression, optics dim and lips pressed into a firm line. Ratchet is no Soundwave when it comes to reading the minds of others. It’s only because of how long and how often the pair’s lives and fates have been tangled that it gave the medic an idea what Drift is thinking, a glimpse into his thoughts. He makes his opinion on it clear with a frown and a tilt of his helm.

 _You know better than that_ , Ratchet’s words ring in the empty air between them. _You’re better than that._

It’s comforting that someone still sees the best in him. Even if it’s only one mech left, it’s enough.

So instead Drift ducks his head and swallows back his words, bitter and poisonous as they are to keep bottled up.

———————————————————————————

_The urge finally gets the better of him after two whole days since learning the truth._

_He can’t help ask. He needs to know—_

_“Are you sure you’re happy with him? Are you really sure?”_

_Rodimus looks up from whatever he’s reading on the datapad, surprise evident on his face before concern and self-consciousness takes over. “… Of course I am,” he starts, a little slow and a little wary. As if trying to figure out what Drift is trying to find. “I mean, you know, I am with him. We had that whole shindig and everything at Swerve’s. You were there, Drift. Remember?”_

_He remembers. Of course he remembers. He remembers every little detail with vivid clarity in his still reeling processor, refusing to let go even the most insignificant of details from that party._

_The streamers, stunning red and ungainly grey, hanging from the ceiling of Swerve’s as if to mock Drift when he entered the room. The cheerful pop music blaring from the speakers, making his helm throb with such pain he could almost ignore the churning in his tanks, the creaking of his knuckles as he held onto the hilt of a sword with a too tight grip. The sight of the sickeningly happy couple tangled in the other’s arms as Rodimus and Megatron welcomed, explained, and answered everything and anything that was directed at them by their invited guests._

_(The way his spark burned and burned and burned at the sight of Rodimus gazing up at Megatron so adoringly—)_

_Before he can stop himself, Drift’s face is inches within Rodimus’, trying to read his aura and his expression to find the truth underneath this supposed truth because this can’t be. This can’t be. This can’t be happening. He’s dimly aware of how he now has his arms on either of Rodimus’ sides, keeping his fellow speedster pinned to the couch. A good thing too, he thinks to himself. Because it looks like Rodimus wants to bolt at any second._

_“Is he blackmailing you somehow?” He asks in hushed whispers, as if afraid the room was bugged but what if it was? The urge to look around is set aside. Later. He needs to make sure Rodimus is safe first. “Is he threatening you? Threatening someone? Just say the word and I’ll help you anyway I can, Roddy.”_

_“What?” Confusion gives way to surprise when the Rodimus catches up with Drift. Then irritation appears, coming in the form of an angry scowl and a frantically fluttering spoiler. Spun gold-and-holy red arms shoot out to push at him and Drift relents for Rodimus’ sake.“No! No! Primus’ breath, Drift— No. Come on. I’m not that helpless. I want to be with him. This is serious.”_

_“But—”_

_“But what?”_

_“He tore a hole through your chest!” Drift read the report. He forced himself to read the report, to go through all the awful details so he could understand why Rodimus sometimes pressed a servo against his chassis when stressed, or why he couldn’t take another hit there anymore if he got involved in a fight. “If the Matrix hadn’t recognise your potential than we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We wouldn’t be on this trip together.” We wouldn’t be together is something he keeps to himself. Drift opts to instead reach out and press his palm against the gold chassis, feeling the spark’s frantic whirring. The idea of the spark of his beloved, his sunlight, so warm and bright and beautiful beneath his touch, being so close to getting snuffed out of existence is too much for him to bear. “He left you to die.”_

_“Drift…”_

_“No.” He doesn’t care anymore. Drift buries his helm in the crook of Rodimus’ neck, trying to steady himself with Rodimus’ warmth and strength and thereness. ”That can’t be excused or reasoned away, Roddy. He left you to die.” He repeats it again, if only to force himself to really think about the dreaded maybe. “You could have died.”_

_“I know that.” Primus must be smiling down on him today because Rodimus wraps his arms around Drift’s frame, tugging his friend down until Drift finds himself sprawled on his friend’s lap, basking in the heat and gentleness and the illusion that this could last forever. “I… I know you’re shocked and worried. I know a lot of you guys are shocked and are gonna be shocked for a while. I know that and I’m sorry.” Rodimus makes the motions of giving a shrug. The gesture banal and meaningful, helpless and yet somehow full of purpose. “I also know I’m in love with Megatron._

_“Despite what’s happened between the two of us, I want to try.” Everything suddenly hurts for Drift when the words register in his processor. His helm hurts. His spark hurts. He tries to pull away and Rodimus is quick to settle him, ease him like he’s unknowingly done for him since they’ve first crossed paths. “We have to try so we’re gonna. It doesn’t make sense, I know, and, um… Yeah. Sorry.”_

_Drift can’t say anything after that. Not because he has nothing to say — He has a lot to say about this, he really does — but because he can feel Rodimus’ EM field reach out tentatively, trying to offer comfort-apologies-care against the undercurrent of **confusion** -trepidation-hesitation that he feels. It hurts to know he’s the cause the conflict of emotions, this uncertainty in a mech who is at his most beautiful when he’s bold and bright as the spark that is contained in the golden chassis he’s pressed flushed against._

_So instead Drift bites down on his tongue and swallows back his true words, bitter and poisonous as they are to keep bottled up._

_“It’s alright,” he lies in the end. “I understand.”_

_The rush of gratitude he feels in Rodimus’ field, aimed all at him, is almost worth it in the end._

_“We’re still friends, right?”_

_“We’re friends.” It hurts to say it aloud and he says it all the same, knowing Rodimus needs to hear this. It gives Drift a chance to take a deep invent, allowing himself to breathe in the scent of stardust and heat, hearth and sweet oils. “And I’ll always be there for you, Rodimus. I promise.”_

———————————————————————————

In his meditations, as he ruminates in his too empty rooms in the too still silence, Drift comes to a decision. It’s one that he thought of the moment he learned of Rodimus’ passing but how the last few weeks have gone by cement it for him. 

The ship has now transformed into a sort of mausoleum in Drift’s tired optics. Everywhere he goes — when he can force himself to leave the safety of his habsuite and prison — there are lingerings remnants of Rodimus that continue to torment him and the others of the ship. It’s not hard to find signs of his hauntings too. In Swerve’s there’s a particular booth no one wants to sit in anymore. In the observation deck, a raised platform is no longer used despite having the best view for when events like meteor showers are within visual range. In the docking bay, a lonely spacecraft sits in its port, now forever collecting dust and uneasy glances whenever a mech passes by. 

There are too many memories of Rodimus here on the _Lost Light_. Too many reminders of a mech he was foolish enough to let slip pass his servos. 

Soon as the ceremony is over, Drift decides he’ll leave the _Lost Light_ and, this time, never come back no matter who comes after him or why they’re coming after him. Where will he go? He isn’t sure but anywhere out in the stars, now so cold and blue, has to be better than here. 

It has to be. 

He takes a shallow invent, trying not to breathe in the scented incense that he now sets alight out of habit more than comfort. Slowly, so slowly, he goes through his thoughts and picks at his memories and decisions that have led up to this shattered remains that he now calls a life. All in an attempt to look for a reason to stay though he knows that will not happen. 

What’s left for him here on the ship? The one he bought for someone who is now no longer here to appreciate it, to enjoy it? 

It’s become unbearable for Drift to be here. It feels like time has now crawled to a standstill on the _Lost Light_ for him. Hours have now become days and days into weeks. Drift shudders to think what it would be like for weeks to become months and months to become years because the idea of living months-years- _centuries_ without Rodimus is an uncomfortable reality. A reality that refuses to really settle on his form, leaving this prickly sensation that lingers on him no matter how hard he scrubs himself in the too hot solvent of his washracks to chase the unpleasantness away. 

He knows it’s selfish to not think of his friends while he weighs and waits and wonders but they’re not enough. Not even for them he’ll force himself to roam through these halls and force himself to go through the motions of a routine he wishes to break ways with. Not for them will he risk a chance of running across the mech who took Rodimus away from him. It takes all his willpower and centuries of built upon patience to not curse the messages he gets from the sole captain of the _Lost Light_ these days. 

Getting a message from Megatron asking for his help, his thoughts on how to go about Rodimus' ceremony is bad enough. Reading the little things he wrote in these messages — the absence of warmth on the ship, noting how lonely it felt in a room too large and too still for him now — made Drift feel irritable and it was wrong.

He knew it was wrong to be so bitter against someone clearly in mourning for someone they loved.

He's in mourning too thanks to this mech.

It’s why he’s been keeping himself cloistered in his habsuite since visiting Swerve's with Ratchet, wanting to minimise the chances of running into pitiful stares, murmured apologies. False stories of how they loved Rodimus and are sad for his departure.

It’s not healthy keeping himself away from the world, to leave himself with these ill thoughts and iller feelings. He knows it because he’s been in this position before in the likes of Rodion and Dead End, Wing’s passing and his departure from the Circle of Light. He knows where this will take him sooner rather than later and He can’t bring himself to care. Because they hours are becoming days and the days are becoming weeks and the idea of spending a day past Rodimus is too much for him to bear.

It’s what he wants to tell his friends and the many, many messages that they’ve left in his inbox. The ones that wait for him if he forces himself to pull out his HUD to check the time and date. The ones that mean well and want to help and make him feel inexplicably angry all the same.

There’s only one message he bothered to open from the growing pile of requests and invitations he leaves well alone:

_Please talk to us. Anyone._

_You know better than this. You’re better than this._

_Please._

_Ratchet._

He wants to reply. He wants to visit Ratchet and scream and scream and scream about the unfairness of it all but it means chasing, confessing, coming out with regrets and wishes of holy red-spun gold that have been stirred by memory and desire. He wants so much and Drift has a feeling this is why he’s in this predicament of his.

So instead Drift deletes the message along with all the other unopened ones and leaves himself with his thoughts, bitter and poisonous as they are to keep bottled up. One by one, he selects the pleas and the inquiries. He then deletes them, one by one. The least he can do is delete them one at a time instead of simply shuttling them all into nothingness just like that. His friends deserve that much courtesy.

They worry and he tells himself that they won’t have to worry for him for too long. He’ll leave this mausoleum soon enough but Drift plans to linger on a little bit longer. He’ll see to Rodimus until the end. He promised to always be there for him and he— He needed to see this through.

Someway. Somehow.

———————————————————————————

_“Are you scared?”_

_Rodimus looks up from his tune up of his rather lackadaisical inspection of his armguards, cocking a orbital ridge at his friend’s direction. They’re the only ones in this section of the shuttle. The others are a little up ahead, no doubt going over the battle plan for the hundredth time. That tends to happen when you let the likes of Megatorn, Ultra Magnus, and Thunderclash get together._

_“Scared?” Rodimus repeats the word, humour evident in his voice. “Why would I be scared?”_

_“We **are** facing down a platoon that splintered from the Black Block Consortia after they were condemned for being too ferocious for the Consortia’s tastes.” Drift shakes his helm at that concept. Too ferocious for the Black Block Consortia. The same one that wiped out an entire planet of bots. What a universe they live in sometimes. “They’re not going to be easy to take down.”_

_“Good! I’ve been itching for a good fight.” Rodimus has been restless, having wandered here to ‘take stock’ of himself. Drift suspects that it has something to do between his friend and his Conjunx before the team boarded the shuttle. He wants to ask what’s wrong and Rodimus, as always, beats him to the punch by adding, “Besides I have you, don’t I? Long as you’re by my side then there’s no way this can go wrong.”_

_Drift wants to point out that’s all but tempting fate. No. That’s goading fate on. Slapping it across the face and so very like Rodimus to look at danger in the eye and laugh a laugh that dares it to do its worst._

_Yet in the face of Rodimus’ brilliance and warming field, Drift can’t help feel like that this is possible. Anything is when Rodimus is around._

_“I’ll see what I can do,” is his reply, flashing Rodimus is own grin. Seeing the flutter of that bright gold spoiler make Drift’s servos twitch and he aches to reach out and caress the sensitive metal. “You know I’ll always be there for you, right?”_

_The grin softens to something sweeter. Softer. “Promise me, Drift?”_

_Drift can't help move closer to Rodimus at that quiet plea, a siren call to him. As if pulled in by a force he doesn't understand and knows all too well, he finds himself pressed flushed against his friend and presses his helm against his._

_Ever trusting, Rodimus shutters his optics and it allows Drift to admire his friend’s beauty and to mourn the possibilities that lay before him, now forever out of reach. There's chemistry between the two of them ever since they met, a force that pulls them together. He’d seen the looks Rodimus sent his way when he thought he was too busy writing speeches or maintaining his swords. He’d heard all the gossip behind his back from the others on the ship, the favouritism and the obvious affection the captain held for his TIC. He’d felt the affection and something more in Rodimus’ spark whenever they bonded in his habsuite._

__

__

_He wonders how he missed his chance with this mech while he settles a servo against Rodimus’ cheek. He wonders how he let Rodimus find solace in Megatron’s arms. He wonders and wonders and knows he'll never have an answer that will ease the ragged edges of the wound he carries in his spark._

_Drift squeezes Rodimus’ servo and, for the briefest of seconds, has this wild urge to never let go. “I promise.”_

———————————————————————————

He’s going to leave today.

That’s the decision he decides on when he storms out of the meeting room, ignoring the arms and servos and pleas that try to reach out to him, try to hold him down and keep him still. He was faintly aware of a certain medic chasing after him, shouting at him, trying to break him out of the haze.

Drift does whatever he can to throw Ratchet off his trail — Not caring who he bumped into or who threw at Ratchet’s way in his attempts to widen the gap between the two of them. They were all blurs of colours in Drift’s vision now, blobs of hues and shades he thinks he knows if he could bring himself to care. A wash of purple with light blue pressed against its legs is quick to step to the side. A tower of teal with splashes of orange on its form is thrown to the side for not getting out fast enough. A collection of orange and white calls out for him and something about the voice - _Drift!_ , it calls outs - makes him run faster, faster, faster.

Ratchet pursues him all the while and Drift wants him to go away. He may have been gone for a longer time but Drift explored the ship days before the first launch, inspecting it high and low to make sure everything was perfect when he presented his gift to Rodimus. He knows the little hallways and tight corridors that allow him a quick route to his habsuite, the dizzying turns and confusing turn backs that allows him to throw off his friend so he can be alone like he’s condemned to be.

Drift practically throws himself inside the too still room when he reaches his destination, the spiel of swears and curses against everything and everyone around him spilling past his lips before the doors can fully close behind him. He fell to his knees, the kibble digging into his protoform from how he was sitting and he didn’t care. The press of sharp edges and points brought some relief to him, pulls him out of his haze long enough to realise this isn’t right and perhaps he should speak with someone.

It wasn’t enough however, for relief brought on by pain is soon giving way to frustration and frustration morphs into anger that nebulous and all-consuming and drags him back under.

He’s angry. He’s so angry he can taste the bitterness last evening’s engenx in the back of his intake and feel the poisonous boil of his energon heating his wires. Why weren’t they listening to him? Why didn’t they believe him when he tried to speak up for Rodimus, for what he knew his friend would want when it came to his funeral arrangements? The plan for it. It was wrong. It was all wrong and he knew it and for some reason his words didn’t hold any merit during the meeting. He tried to be reasonable, tried to explain himself and his reasons yet everyone in the meeting looked at him like he had grown a second helm or something. Like he his words weren’t enough because he and Rodimus were merely Amicas while Megatron was his Conjunx.

 _They hadn’t even completed the ritual-!_ That thought irritated Drift the most. Angered him. Frustrated him. Rubbed him raw like the patches that littered his aching form. Megatron got precedent over Drift despite not having any right to, despite being too much of a _coward_ to truly go all the way with a mech who thought the best of him and thought he was the one.

Rodimus told him how Megatron turned him away, time after time, no matter how much the young Prime pleaded and begged for their two sparks to become one to complete the Ritus ceremony that Rodimus had initiated with his co-captain. That angered Drift the most, left him breathless while he yelled and cursed while he cradles his helm in a too tight grip.

Drift would have never turned Rodimus away if he begged for a bond. No matter how intense his feelings were at the time or how sudden the request is. He knew his friend, his Amica, his Rodimus. He loved him and apparently Megatron didn’t. Not enough to really care for him or to know him better and it isn’t fair.

Drift knows he shouldn’t be thinking this and it’s too late. He know it’s too late like how everything else is always too late or too soon or never enough. He now finds himself in an endless loop, pacing in circles and thoughts and indignations. There’s no warm and heavy servo to break him out of his circular and cruel thoughts, no one to stop with a frank stare or sweet and soft smile. It feels like the room is spinning around him, falling around his feet thanks to the constant banging, the voices(?), the noxious smell of the scented incense he sets alight out of habit than comfort.

His processor, wild and tempestuous, begins to gnash and snarl over his furious thoughts and countless critiques. The ones he’s been holding inside of him against the crew and Megatron and especially Megatron in the light of meeting. He rails against every decision Megatron is making for someone he claims to love because they’re all wrong wrong wrong.

Rodimus wouldn’t want a Nyonian pyre — He wanted his parts to be reused so others could benefit from him long after his departure. Rodimus wouldn’t want a Prime’s procession — He wanted something simple and meaningful and quiet so his spark was truly at peace. Rodimus wouldn’t want a fucking statue of himself on what was left of Nyon— Rodimis wouldn’t— Rodimus would— Rodimus—

_Rodimus is dead._

Drift doesn’t realise he’s screaming and screaming and screaming until he feels his servos, clawed and slick, digging into his throat, tearing into wires and panels in an attempt to pull out the words, so poisonous and bitter on his glossa, that have been choking him since Ratchet left the surgery room, his optics dim and dark.

He doesn’t realise a lot of things.

Like how the others have finally broken into his room when they hear his screams, the intrusion casting a harsh and unforgiving light across his thrashing frame while arms and servos and pleas that try to reach out to him, try to hold him down and keep him still. Or he’s still screaming and screaming and screaming while Ratchet pulls him into an embrace, tries to shield from the gaze of passerby and officers and friends who wanted to help him.

Drift finds himself enveloped in a field that’s familiar and foreign and forgiving and, if anything, that makes him scream louder as his apologies break and stutter into feedback, his words and mantras and prayers soon devolve into crackles of static and shame, hisses of sadness and sorrow.

Because Rodimus is gone and Drift can no longer be there with him. All he has left now is his bitterness and the fading visions of soft and tired features, forever caught in the light of stars and sparkglow.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: The original piece was only 457 words long and I thought I would hit at most around 800 words. Hahahaha… Hahahahahaha…. Hahahahahahahaha… _Help me._
> 
> You can hit me up on [my regular Tumblr account](https://alyonian.tumblr.com/), [NSFW TF Tumblr account](https://starschemer.tumblr.com/), and/or [Twitter account](https://twitter.com/withersake) if you want more suffering robots.


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